


Shattered

by snarled_musings



Series: Songfic 'verse [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Overthinking, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarled_musings/pseuds/snarled_musings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's overworked and overthinking. It's not a good thing; nothing damages a man's self-esteem more than turning into a cliche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> Back to my songfic 'verse. This has just waited to be written. I blame O.A.R's "Shattered", because that's the only reason this piece got written. That and some sleep deprivation that I'm still trying to catch up on.

_In a way I need a change from this burnout scene, another town another place, another everything_

_but it's always back to you_

_Stumble out in the night in the pouring rain, made the block, sat and thought_

_There's more I need_

_It's always back to you_

 

He stuffs his hands in his pockets after pulling the collar of his coat up. It raining in sheets, pouring down. He puts his head down and starts walking. A lone man, walking the empty streets of New York at fuck o'clock in the night. When did he become a damn movie cliche? He distracts himself with wondering who'd play him if this was a movie. George Clooney would be acceptable; with his luck he'd probably end up with someone like Matthew McConaughey. He passes a liquor store; for a second he's tempted to go in. The he pictures the look of disappointment on Finch's face. His shoulders slump and he walks on. Pretty soon his shoes are squelching, he's soaked to the bone. He doesn't care. The whole thing's ridiculous, _he's_ ridiculous. He's better than this, except apparently he's not.

 

It's been too much, no breaks, no slack. No time to breathe, to regain his equilibrium. Numbers getting spit out faster than he can help them, or stop them. Exhaustion makes him reckless, careless. It gets the work done, and that ensures his usefulness. It also earns him disapproving glares as Finch patches him up. At the moment he's a walking color chart of bruises, underlines by cuts. Some of the colors on his ribs probably aren't even intended to be found naturally. But those glares are proof that he means _something_. Just not what he wants to mean.

 

He sits down on a park bench. The seat of his pants are soaked through in moments. Not that it matters. He reflects on his last number. The man was small, a bit older, everyday. Glasses, hair going slightly gray. So similar to Finch, at least physically. And he couldn't save him. He struck out; too slow, too tired. What if he's lost his edge? What if the next time it happens it really is Finch's life on the line? He needs to find himself again; get back in the game. Or maybe he needs a vacation. He pictures Finch's face as he asks for a few days off and almost smiles at the thought. Part of him thinks maybe he should just get out, step away from it all. Start a new life.

 

_But I'm good without you, I'm good without you, yeah, yeah._

 

The idea is ludicrous. There's nowhere he'd rather go, no place he'd rather be. Well, in all honesty he could do the smart thing and get out of the rain. But of course he won't leave his life, leave New York. He might as well shoot himself right away. Anywhere but here his existence would be a complete and utter waste. But he's worn thin enough to admit that he wants more. These are thoughts he only allows himself to admit in the lonely hours of night. Usually he's in his bed when he thinks them. Tonight he's making an exception.

 

_How many times can I break til I shatter? Over the line, can't define what I'm after_

_I always turn the car around_

_give me a break, let me make my own patterns, all that it takes is some time but I'm shattered_

_I always turn the car around_

 

He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. If he stays like this he might start crying. It's exhaustion, and he knows it. It always plays hell with him, wreaks havoc on his emotional responses. When he's stretched thin he can't control himself, can't partition some things away. Can't be around certain persons lest he gives himself away completely. Some things shouldn't be let out in the open, he knows that better than anyone. That's why he escapes into the rain. After all, he's always been a sucker for punishing himself.

 

_I never knew that the night would take so damn long, took it out on the streets_

_while the rain still pours_

_push me back to you_

 

He should have known he would end up like this. He's always forming emotional attachments, it's his specialty. He empathizes too much with the marks, tends to see too much of himself in them. Not always, but from time to time there are uncomfortable parallels that's just too close to home. Usually he can tune it out, but he knows Finch _always_ knows when he's slipping. That's when the small touches are there, that's when he's ”John” instead of ”Mr. Reese.” That's when his traitorous mind and heart checks out and admits that he wants so much more than a working relationship. That's when he leaves; before he embarrasses himself and ruin everything. It would just take a few words and one gesture, so he always flees before he can make that final descent into madness. It's not like he needs that anyway, he tells himself. He finds satisfaction, even happiness in his work. And Finch is his best friend. How could he ask for more than that?

 

_But I'm good without you, yeah, I'm good without you, yeah_

 

If he closed his eyes he might fall asleep right where he is. Which is probably the most stupid idea ever. Pneumonia isn't fun, he knows that from experience. He really should head back home, dry off and get some sleep. He needs it. But he's still too restless, antsy, mind running circles like a drugged hamster. If he bangs his head against a lamp post, maybe that'll set his brain cells right? He's sluggish all over, except for his mind. But that's like a hyperactive kid on a sugar rush, all fractured, spinning from point to point in disjointed fragments. Oh, this is getting out of hand. He's really on the edge of the precipice; a short step to a _loong_ drop. He knows the signs. Either he'll break down and cry or he'll go on a killing spree. The crying option seems more emotionally healthy; the killing spree is more his style. Emotional health has never been his forte. After all he even tells sanity to go fuck itself on occasion. He really could be the poster boy for dysfunction.

 

_Give it up, give it up baby, give it up give it up now_

 

He tries to get up, to go home, but his body doesn't answer his brain's instructions. Seems like he's sleeping on a park bench in the rain after all. Shit, when did it come to this? How did he let himself fall so far? It's blindsided him completely, leaving him baffled with himself. Of all the stupid things he's done, falling for Finch is right at the top. Still, somehow it's a relief to finally admit it to himself. Maybe that's what he needs to get up. He tries to stand up. Nope. Still too exhausted. His head falls back into his hands.

 

_How many times can I break til I shatter? Over the line, can't define what I'm after_

_I always turn the car around_

_all that I feel is the realness I'm faking, taking my time but it's time that I'm wasting_

_I always turn the car around_

 

The rain on his face feels warm. Oh. His body's decided to go for the emotionally healthy response after all. He doesn't care, doesn't give a shit. He lets the tears run their course and start mapping out why he's crying. Because he's too fucking tired not to is number one. Because he loves his job, and his employer, and those two aren't conclusive to each other. Not if he wants to keep both. Number two. Because he's a complete and utter idiot who can't deal with a little stress. Okay, a lot of stress, physical injuries and nerve-wracking tension. That's number three. Then he draws a blank, but that about sums it up nicely. All good things come in threes, after all.

 

_How many times can I break til I shatter? Over the line, can't define what I'm after_

_I always turn the car around_

_Don't wanna turn that car around, I gotta turn this thing around_

 

”John?” Great, now he's hallucinating as well. Maybe pneumonia's already set in and he's having fever hallucinations. He doesn't look up, just shakes his head slightly and keeps his face hidden. Something registers in the back of his mind; the rain's not falling on him anymore. ”John?” This time the soft question of his name is accompanied by a hand on his back. Swallowing hard he looks up and meets Finch's eyes. He stands in front of him, immaculate as ever, holding a large umbrella over the two of them. His eyes are warm with worry and concern. ”What are you doing here in the middle of the night? You're ice cold!”

 

He opens his mouth to answer, but all that emerges is a small, choked sound. He really tries to control himself, but his body really isn't responding to his brain. What happens is he turns his head, resting it against Finch's hip. He twists slightly to keep his face averted; humiliated that he's so weak, that Finch gets to see this. That he puts Finch through this. This is his fault, his mess, nothing he should force upon his friend. Soft fingers tangle in his hair, brushes wet strands away from his face.

 

”I know, John, it's okay. It's fine.” A soft murmur that make more hotness spill from his eyes, caring and gentle, tender. The fingers stay in his hair as he helplessly breaks down, arms going around Finch's waist. They stay like that for a long time, not speaking, until John's shuddering has stopped and his breathing's slowed. He feels the softness of the cloth, the hardness of bones beneath them and just breathes in the scent of Finch. The fingers in his hair tug lightly, forces him to lift his head. He wants to avert his eyes, but it's much too late for that anyway. He's already shown himself at his worst. He lifts his head, tries to look defiant. It probably looks deflated more than anything. Finch caresses his cheek, removes traces of rain and tears. There's no judgment in his eyes, no condemnation, only caring and trust. Warmth. Maybe he can turn this around after all. he allows himself a small flicker of hope.

 

”I- I'm-” Finch shakes his head slightly.

 

”John, _I know_. You don't need to say anything.” He probably should anyway, but he's too weak with relief. Instead he takes Finch's outstretched hand. He's shivering, only now noticing just how soaked he is. ”Let's go home.” John doesn't ask where that is. He doesn't really care. What matters is that he's shattered, but someone's there to pick up the pieces.


End file.
